


The Air Moves In To Fill the Spaces Where My Body's Been

by britomart_is



Series: The Air Moves In [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Car Sex, Come Sharing, Cunnilingus, F/M, Flirting, Het and Slash, Idiots in Love, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Slut Dean, Slut Sam, Sublimating Feelings, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, denial ain't just a river in egypt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:39:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6672970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britomart_is/pseuds/britomart_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not about Dean. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Air Moves In To Fill the Spaces Where My Body's Been

The first time it happens, Sam's fifteen and Dean's the most horrible, filthy, lying cheating whore ever to walk the earth – or at least that's what the tear-streaked girl running away from their apartment is saying. Sam recognizes her, Stacey or something—Dean's been dating her for a couple weeks and Sam likes her more than some of Dean's girlfriends. At least she says hello to him when she's over at their place.

Dean's staggering in the doorway, trying to get his pants up without injuring any important body parts, and Sam's not sure of the details, but he just thinks oh, this again. Sam knows Dean has respect for girls, he just ... doesn't always think too carefully when a pretty one throws herself in his lap, or when he's trying to let a girl down gently five minutes after they've had sex.

Stacey's still hurling insults at Dean, backing away so she runs right into Sam. She turns, looking furious, but then she recognizes him and her expression shifts. Sam has a split second to be alarmed by the look in her eyes before she's throwing a defiant look back at Dean, reeling Sam in by his shirtfront, and kissing him.

And Sam's been kissed before, no matter what Dean'll tell you, but Stacey's really trying to prove her point and Sam's starting to get a little lightheaded. Even with Stacey's body pressed right up against him and her tongue in his mouth, Sam can't forget that Dean is watching. Dean's right there, watching Sam kissing this girl, Dean's girl, this girl who's kissed Dean with this mouth, and maybe Sam's just glad to have one up on Dean for once, because instead of grossing him out, it feels awesome.

Sam dimly hears Dean in the background, "Oh, come on," but something else has caught Sam's attention and now he's getting a little distracted, trying to figure it out—Stacey tastes like strawberry lip gloss, which is great, but there's something weirdly sour, too, a tang that's sort of familiar and it's throwing Sam off until he realizes—oh. Oh God.

The moment Sam realizes that he's tasting his brother's come, it would make sense if he bolted. It would make sense if he pushed her away, ran into the apartment, and rinsed his mouth out with dish detergent. So it doesn't really make sense that all Sam can do is groan into Stacey's mouth and kiss her back.

The groan seems to remind Stacey that it's time to go, though, and she pulls away, glares back at Dean, and storms off with a final, "You're a pig!"

Dean glowers at Sam while he zips up his jeans. "Thanks for the backup, dude."

Sam's mouth still tastes like Dean.

And that's the first time.

 

#

 

Sam does his best to hide most of the time, shoulders down, hair in his eyes, trying not to take up too much room. Not to be conspicuous. It helps that Dean's usually ready and willing to attract attention, diverting it away from Sam. Dean's bright and golden and brash and Sam can see why the whole world wants to look at him.

But sometimes it doesn't work. Right now is one of them. They didn't have to do much coaxing for information on this case; Kara's a grad student and local history buff, and she's more than happy to tell them anything they want to know. Especially Sam. Especially after she gets off work at six.

"It's kind of a long story," she says. She's leaning so far forward over her desk that Sam can see right down her shirt, though Dean's the only one who seems to have trouble keeping his eyes on her face. "I mean, I can think of a few deaths around the church as far back as the 1800s. I'd really have to go through my records, though, so it could take a while. But I could have a list by tonight."

Kara's whole body is oriented towards Sam, like Dean's not even in the room. She looks so hopeful, and objectively, Sam knows she's gorgeous, but—

"That's all right," Sam says, standing up. "We'll come by in the morning. Thanks for your help."

Dean elbows Sam hard in the side as they leave. "She was hot for you, come on!"

"Yeah, that's why we're leaving." Sam sighs. "I figure at least one of us should be thinking with his upstairs brain when we're on a case."

 

So it's just Sam's luck that when Dean picks a bar that night for hustling dumb college kids, it happens to be Kara's favorite.

"Mark!"

Sam doesn't respond to the pseudonym of the week until a small hand brushes down his shoulder and he remembers.

"Mark, hi!" Kara looks like it's her birthday and her parents just gave her a puppy and a pony. And chocolate cake, 'cause for all her wide-eyed sweetness, there's an edge of hunger there, too.

Kara really is sweet, and friendly, but she's smart, too, and by the time Sam's done with his first beer, she's figured out that his polite retreats from her advances are not going to change. She looks disappointed, and Sam feels a little guilty that he can't summon up the interest even to play along.

He excuses himself to the bathroom and when he comes back, Dean's sitting on Sam's barstool and Kara doesn't look so disappointed anymore.

Later, when Sam's in the passenger seat of the car playing Solitaire on the laptop (he recognizes the irony, but Hearts wasn't much better) and Dean's in their room with Kara, he's thankful once again for Dean's willingness to rescue Sam from attention he doesn't want.

Dean gives him shit about it, of course, "There are all kinds of treatments for erectile dysfunction now, Sam, you don't have to suffer in silence," but really Sam thinks Dean likes it better this way, and not just because he gets the women. Dean always gets a little tense when strangers pay too much attention to Sam, that big-brother protective instinct or something. Sam doesn't want to think about bringing a girl back to the room and then finding Dean standing guard outside with a gun, listening for signs that the girl's a succubus.

Well, stated that way it's pretty creepy, but it's nice to have someone looking out for him, so consistent that Sam doesn't even have to think about it, just has a sense of safety at the back of his mind.

Sam's played nineteen games of Solitaire and defragmented the hard drive by the time a strip of light appears at their door and Kara comes out of the room, pulling on her jacket. Sam shuts the laptop with a grateful sigh and begins gathering his things so he can finally go in and get some sleep.

There's a knock at the passenger side window. Sam sees Kara peering through the glass, so he rolls it down.

"Hey, Mark."

Her mouth is on Sam's before he can say anything. He's startled, not sure what she's trying to do here, and he's about to pull away when he tastes it.

The long-buried memory, his best jerk-off fantasy for years as a teenager, shocks a ragged breath out of Sam. Without even thinking he's reaching up to hold her face with both hands, feeling her tangled hair and the sweat-damp curls of it around her neck. Sam fights her for control of the kiss, eagerly licking away the taste—Dean.

Maybe she sucked him off, then writhed on the sheets while Dean ate her out until he was hard enough to fuck her again. Maybe they curled around each other in a tight arch, her licking him, him licking her, wet sounds in the darkness. One way or another, Kara's had Dean's come tonight. And now Sam has.

Sam moans and tries to push closer to her, cursing when the car door gets in his way. He fumbles with the door until he can tumble out and pin her against the car. Sam's shaking a little as he kisses her again, runs his hands everywhere he can touch, slides his hips up against hers, thinks about where else she smells and tastes like Dean.

Kara pushes him away, gasping. She extricates herself from between Sam and the car and, blushing like crazy, says, "I should go. I should—go." She walks away on legs that look a little unsteady.

Sam leans back against the car, lets the cool metal chill his skin, and waits for his breathing to even out. God, that was—something he hasn't felt in a long time.

It's some weird Pavlovian thing, he supposes—hot older girl kisses him when he's a horny teenager, now tasting a guy's come puts him right back in desperate-fifteen-year-old mode. Something like that. Or maybe it's a competition thing, knowing he can have what Dean has.

Whatever the reason is, Sam's most pressing problem is the tent in his pants, the ache, the buzzing of his skin. It's not going to go away on its own, so Sam lies back against the side of Dean's car, prays that no one comes through the parking lot, and wraps a hand around himself, moving fast then faster. He lets his tongue trace along his teeth, his bottom lip, and he comes over the asphalt.

Sam grabs his things from the car and goes into the room, where Dean's already halfway asleep. It smells like sex.

Sam feels his blood rush south again.

 

#

 

Sam stops hiding so much. When they go out, now, he stands up a little straighter, looks more people in the eye. He's not sure what he thinks will come of it, doesn't really want to think about why, but he lets people notice him.

And they do notice. Women's eyes are drawn to him, as the tallest person in the room, and he sees them appraising his shoulders, his hands, the self-awareness of every inch of himself that follows from using his body every day as a tool, as a weapon, counting on it to keep him and his brother alive.

It feels kind of good, their eyes on him. And Dean notices them noticing Sam, sees Sam standing up taller, and if he looks at Sam with an arched eyebrow, trying to figure him out, well, that feels kind of good, too.

 

#

 

Sam knows what he wants tonight, though he's not letting himself think about it straight-on, only at an angle, only in his peripheral vision where he doesn't have to name it.

He knows exactly what he's doing when he sees the curvy brunette's eyes running over him and this time, he doesn't retreat. She probably spent forty-five minutes picking out her clothes tonight, ones that say adventurous with standards. And Sam likes that, that'll do nicely.

It's not difficult, really, slipping back into remembered patterns—buying her a drink, smiling bashfully in that way they like, turning off the non-threatening voice he uses on witnesses and instead rumbling low in her ear, letting knees and hands and feet be just close enough that the small space between them is electrified with expectation.

This girl—Rose—she wants to go home with Sam. The way she melts into him when his voice goes low, the way she leans forward so intently when he speaks. When he first saw her she was putting on a show, but now she's forgotten to be coy. She wants to go home with Sam. But Sam's not going to let her.

He waits until he knows he's made a deep impression, and then he takes her by the hand and leads her over to where Dean's playing darts.

"Rose, this is Dean."

Dean and Rose both look confused when Sam turns around and leaves, silently signaling Dean, the subtle code that says all-is-well, meet-you-later. He knows Dean'll want an explanation later, but if this goes the way he hopes, it'll be worth it.

Sam walks the two blocks back to the motel and settles down in the all-night coffee shop across the street to watch.

He's starting to think it was a stupid idea, glaring self-recriminations into his coffee, when he sees Dean coming down the sidewalk. Dean's got Rose with him.

Sam mutters a prayer of thanks for his brother's reliability, his endless capacity to cheer up a pretty girl, to bring her back to the room without making her feel cheap.

Once Dean and Rose are through the door, Sam leaves his coffee and goes to lurk in the motel's parking lot. He could get in the car to wait, but he's not sure how long they'll be, needs to be ready on his feet. He's got the car a discreet distance from the room, and he leans against it, paces, hopes the night manager doesn't see him and call the cops.

Sam knows his plan's a longshot. It's more than likely that he'll get nothing but slapped tonight.

Rose comes slipping out the door again an hour later, but it's felt like days to Sam. He sits on the hood of the car, no standing, can't be threatening, not too tall in the dark. He lets his body be open.

"Hey," he says. "Over here."

Rose starts, turns, sees him. Her heels click on the pavement as she walks over to the car.

"You left." There's no reproach in her voice, maybe a little insecurity. Self-consciousness that he's just seen her leaving Dean's room, even, not knowing the thrill that sight sent through him. Curiosity too, though. She hasn't written him off entirely. Rose stands by the car, smoothing her skirt.

"I know," Sam says. He swings around to the side of the hood, bracketing Rose so if she took just one step forward she'd be in between his legs. "I'm sorry."

He's not and she knows it, her eyes tell him. She's not easily fooled by liars and he likes that, but he's not here to hurt her and she sees that, too.

"'I'd like to make it up to you." An offer, not a demand, though he burns to touch her.

Sam holds out a hand, lets her decide.

It's only the briefest moment before Rose's small hand is lightly touching his, then gliding up along the length of his arm as she steps into him. Her hand on his shoulder is the only place they're touching and it's just like earlier, at the bar—the electric hum of the space between them is warming them both, speeding their breaths and pulses, and they haven't even touched, not really.

To Sam's disappointment, when Rose kisses him she only tastes like herself, so he doesn't waste time. He kisses her just until she starts clutching at his shoulders, leaning all her weight into his body, and then he guides her, gets her under him in the backseat. Skirt up, panties down. There's not enough room for Sam back here, let alone both of them, so he's half out of the car, and yeah, he really hopes the manager doesn't come along, or some family with kids checking in late. His breath comes a little faster because now that he's here, it's really happening, Sam's too eager, can't hold himself back.

Sam pushes gently but firmly at her thighs until they're up against her chest. "Hold 'em," he says, and she lets out a soft, shocked little breath, _huh_. Her hands come around to grip at her thighs, keeping her open for him.

Sam leans in close to look at her slippery-pink cunt, sees her shiver when his breath hits her. She's wet, so hot and wet and slick and it's because of whatever Dean did to her in that room. Got her ready and anxious for Dean's dick so he could slide right into her—right there. Sam's in awe as he traces along her slit with one finger, circles the place where Dean's been, maybe just minutes ago. Rose squirms, shifting her hips as he teases her, and Sam knows all her attention's focused on the place where his finger isn't inside her, where it could be, where he could push in at any moment. But Sam needs to get closer than that.

"So pretty," Sam says, and he surges forward to lick along her folds. Rose lets out a broken moan, so needy like she hasn't just been fucked. Sam licks and licks and all he tastes is girl and latex, which isn't a surprise but is a little disappointing, but that's all right because Sam's head is spinning anyway.

Sam flicks his tongue across her clit, sucks and nudges until she's panting, and it's not the main attraction but it makes her feel good and she's so good, beautiful wonderful girl, letting him have this, doesn't even know the gift she's giving him.

Rose is all messy and open where she's just been fucked, opened up from Dean's cock going in and out, and Sam buries his face there, right where he wants to be. He lets the tip of his tongue slip just inside, but he wants more and from the way she's tugging at his hair, she does, too.

Sam's quick, button, zip, push down pants and shorts just enough, condom, and then her cunt is stretching around his dick. Rose gasps as he pushes in with one steady thrust, shuts her eyes tight, and Sam knows he's big, bigger than Dean, but as her features soften Rose's lips are starting to turn up at the corners, and when he feels the tentative push of her hips he knows she's loving this.

It's obvious Sam's not going to last long; her cunt wraps around him so warm and welcoming, clutching at him, and it feels so good and it's just what Dean felt. Sam huffs into her hair, hips jerking fast, too far gone and out of his control. He presses a hand between them to rub furiously at her clit, 'cause this is going to be over far too fast and he's got to make it worth her while. Sam closes his eyes and wants to ask her, "Is this how he did it? How he fucked you?" Maybe bent in two just like this, her legs on his shoulders, or with Dean behind her, or Dean beneath her pushing up up up. It's a good thing Sam can feel her shake and clench around him because at that thought, his orgasm hits him like falling off a cliff.

Sam pulls out, tosses the condom out the door, under the next car where it's not too obvious. He falls back between her legs, resting his head in the cradle of them while Rose stares dazedly up at the ceiling.

"Thank you," he says, kissing her inner thigh. "Thank you."

Rose doesn't know exactly what he's thanking her for, but she looks happy enough through the panting, the unfocused eyes.

 

#

 

Sam can't manage it often. It's the rare girl that's up for it, fucking two strangers in one night, but they're out there. Sam has a good eye for them—women with hungry looks for both Dean and Sam, probably wishing they could take both men home with them, be sandwiched in between. Sam's spent more than a few moments alone with that scenario and his right hand, but it's impossible, so he keeps doing what he's doing, the closest he'll ever get.

 

#

 

There's this one girl—can't remember her name, not enough upstairs brain at work—and she's so eager for it, so eager. Sam's got her in the backseat, both of them overheated in the too-small space, and he's biting her neck while his hand steals up her skirt, finds no panties, goes right to her cunt. And she's wet, hell yes she's wet, 'cause she's just had Dean, but Sam's fingers find tightness, trace over her and it's like she hasn't been fucked, and that's just not like Dean.

It's when Sam's thumb brushes further back that his capacity for rational thought abandons him. He can hardly breathe as he trails his fingers back to her ass, and there, there she's messy with lube, fucked open, and she squirms as Sam's touch circles around her opening.

Sam's so fucking glad she's so hot for him and already prepared, 'cause he can't slow down, _can't_ , rolls her over, pulls her hips up, fumbles the condom, and pushes in. She's grinding back against him, filthy stream of words coming out of her mouth meant to turn him on, but Sam can't even hear her, can't even move for a moment. She's so wet and tight and already opened up to fit around Dean's cock, and Sam fits himself into that space like it was made for him.

When Sam starts moving, he can't stop, couldn't if the sky started raining fire right then and there, he just has to go harder, faster, deeper, knows that he'll die if he doesn't. He doesn't know this girl's name and he forgets who he's fucking until she starts moaning so loud he can't tune her out and just feel. Sam covers her mouth then and she just goes wild, and he brings his other hand around to thumb her clit, push two fingers into her empty cunt, and then she comes, shuddering around him, and that's all Sam can take. He doesn't know who she is but he rasps out a name anyway as he comes, sound spilling out of him probably too loud, and he'll just pretend later that he doesn't remember what he growled in that moment.

 

#

 

As good as Winchesters are at lying to themselves, eventually Sam has to admit that it's not about some stupid teenage sensory association. It's not about the girls, and it's not about competition. When Sam's buried deep in some girl's pussy and he forgets where he is, forgets who he's with, he has to admit it. It's about Dean.

There's guilt. Of course there's guilt. Winchesters are good at that, too. It's not the incest thing. Sam's kind of okay with that. He figures most brothers don't spend their adult lives sharing one motel room or the front seat of a car seven days a week, most brothers don't stitch up each other's skin on a regular basis, have never even once kept vigil at each other's bedsides, waiting to see if life goes on or stutters to a stop. That kind of intimacy's unhealthy enough already, probably, but neither Sam nor Dean will ever desire to change it.

But that's kind of the thing. Sam has access to so much of Dean, all their lives Sam's been needing and Dean's been giving, and this is the one part of Dean that's not Sam's. Strangers all over the country get to have Dean in this way that Sam can't, and he's greedy for it. So there's guilt, and there's shame. Dean's given up so much, and still Sam wants more.

No matter how he tries, Sam can't stop wanting to tear down the one last wall between them. He wants to taste, and he wants to touch. Wants to be the one to make Dean feel good so that finally every ounce of Dean's love and affection is Sam's.

 

#

 

Sam gets away with it, until he doesn't.

When the girl finishes bouncing on his dick, gasping and flushed, they both get their clothes back together in the tight space, elbows and knees and fogged-up windows. Sam's a gentleman, sex in the backseat notwithstanding, so he helps her out of the car, kisses her goodbye—and that's when he sees, and the bottom drops out of his stomach.

Dean's barely visible by the neon light of the motel sign, hidden in the shadows of the doorway. But Sam feels stripped naked, exposed and cut open by his stare.

Dean leaves the door open for him when he goes back in. Sam locks up the car and comes in and the lights are off, Dean's in bed.

Sam's awake for hours, trying to think of an explanation, an excuse, trying to think of anything. So it's lucky that the next day, Dean doesn't confront him about it—doesn't say anything.

It's lucky.

 

#

 

Sam's about to shiver out of his skin with arousal, cursing as he tries to get the girl's jeans down, pushing hastily at them. It's been too long—after getting caught, he's been holding off, resisting, but it finally got to be too much so now he's here, with this girl, and her jeans are caught around her ankles and Sam does not have the patience.

When her legs are finally freed Sam dives in between her thighs, ready to warm her up, takes a nice leisurely lick from her clit to her—oh _fuck_.

He tastes it. Not latex, but—Dean. There's a split second of _that irresponsible fucker, what was he thinking_ , but Sam can't concentrate very well on safe sex when there's a gorgeous cunt full of Dean's come right there in front of him.

The girl howls like she's been hit when Sam starts licking into her, lapping up the taste he remembers so clearly. He's a little dizzy, intoxicated, doesn't want to stop to breathe, and when she starts rolling her hips, riding his face, he finally has to pull away or he is going to come _right now_ on the seat, and that—that would be a waste.

There's a condom in Sam's back pocket but he ignores it, he asks and she's on the Pill and he'll feel guilty in the morning if he actually survives that long. He can hardly get his jeans down fast enough and then—he's in.

She's so wet, and it's mostly her but some of it—some of it—that's Dean. Sam knows it. He tasted it. He fucks into her again and again and he wants to savor it but he can't slow down when Dean's come is right here, right on him, and Dean's naked cock was fucking into her half an hour ago and it's almost— _almost_ —like what Sam really wants.

Sam comes too fast, so he goes down on her again, licks his and Dean's seed out of her until she shudders and arches. He's licked her clean, but the taste of Dean is still in his mouth.

The girl gives Sam a wicked look when he says goodbye. "He says to keep the lights off when you come inside, try not to bang around and wake him up." And she leaves.

Sam can't move for a moment.

Dean knows. Of course he knows. Wait—Dean knows—knows and he still—huh.

Sam reevaluates. He licks his lips, tastes, and thinks—a _gift_. From Dean, who _knows_.

He goes inside, not with dread, but with something else fluttering in his belly.

It's dark and quiet, so Sam complies, leaves the lights off and strips quietly. As for waking Dean up, the room's electric with how very not asleep Dean is. Sam imagines his brother listening closely for sounds from outside, and his spent cock twitches.

Sam crawls into bed, nervous as hell, because what does he do now? He tries to feign sleep, tries to act like he doesn't want more than anything to close that tiny distance between beds and slide between Dean's sheets.

And it's working more-or-less okay until he hears the hush-hush of Dean's hand.

Dean must know he's awake. Is he torturing him? Inviting him? Goosebumps break out all over Sam's skin and he lies still, paralyzed.

Sam hears Dean's rhythm quicken and if he listens close enough, he can hear the little hitches of breath. He can't see, wonders if Dean's got his eyes squeezed tight shut or if he's looking over here, looking at Sam.

It doesn't take long before Dean comes with a long, low sound, not even muffled.

There's a rustling of sheets, Dean getting up, and Sam closes his eyes quickly, puts on his sleep-sounding breath, glad he's on his side so his dick's not pushing up the sheets. He waits to hear Dean going into the bathroom to clean up, but the carpet-muffled footsteps stop. Sam can hear Dean breathing, but more than that he can feel him, that subconscious awareness of Dean's presence at all times.

Sam cracks his eyes open and Dean's there, standing by Sam's bed unmoving with his hand outstretched. Sam panics a little at first, what the fuck, but the smell of Dean's come is so heavy in the room and then—then Sam sees the glistening across Dean's fingertips.

Dean's head is turned away from Sam like he just happens to be standing there for no reason at all, and Sam's so fucking confused, doesn't understand, but he's pretty sure there's no way he's misinterpreting the invitation.

So—silently, silently, any words and he'll lose this—Sam leans forward to the side of the bed, fingers clutching in the sheets, and he licks.

It's the weirdest thing he's ever done, licking the come off Dean's hand while Dean just stands there, and Sam's ravenous but he goes slowly, gently lapping up what Dean offers him. It's still warm. Sam's careful, thorough, licks the tender spaces between Dean's fingers, too, and tastes the salt of his skin. When he's cleaned Dean's palm, Sam doesn't hesitate before closing his lips around Dean's index finger.

Dean makes a choked noise and that's it, Sam moans, silence broken. He sucks Dean's finger down and swirls his tongue over it until there's nothing more to taste, and then he moves on to the rest, an almost subvocal thrum of pleasure in his throat the whole time, groaning low as he suckles.

Sam pulls off, panting, when Dean's hand is clean, and Sam's hard and warm-skinned and not sure what happens next. He can hear Dean's ragged breath and thinks, I did that, and Dean's silhouette is still for a moment before he crawls back into his own sheets.

Sam's still not sure what he's supposed to do, fall asleep maybe, but he's never going to fall asleep now, achingly hard and so worked up he thinks he'd barely need to touch himself. Sam tries to guess at the rules, does he pretend to sleep, go in the bathroom and jerk off—but he doesn't want to. Dean just fed Sam his come, so Sam decides to put on a little show. Dean can't exactly complain and Sam thinks maybe—maybe—he might be hoping for it.

Impulsively, Sam rolls over, cheek pressed against his pillow, face turned toward Dean's bed. He arches his back and presses his hips into the mattress, rubs his dick against the sheets. Sam deliberately exaggerates every motion for Dean's benefit, but it starts to get to him, too. When he hitches his hips up, Sam thinks about an imaginary lover behind him, pulling Sam back onto his dick and then fucking him into the mattress. When Sam pushes forward, imagining so clearly being pinned beneath Dean with his brother's breath hot on his neck and his ass full of cock, he comes instantly, spurting all over the sheets and gasping into his pillow.

Sam lies there in the sticky mess, not sure he can move. In the dark room he can hear Dean breathing heavily, and he smiles.

They're three feet apart, air between the beds buzzing and humming. There's a space between them, but that space is getting smaller day by day.

 

#


End file.
